‘Not long: only three or four weeks,’ said Charlie. Berenkov wouldn’t have told either of them, he supposed; not everything anyway.
‘How long do you expect to stay?’
It didn’t look as if he’d told the boy anything. ‘A long time,’ said Charlie, easily. He felt no difficulty. It was business; their type of business at which they were both expert. Berenkov would understand, later.
‘My father was a long time in the West.’
Charlie smiled sideways at Berenkov, who was sitting contentedly listening to the boy practise his English in the conversation. ‘I know he was,’ said Charlie. ‘He was very successful there.’
‘You were a close friend of my father’s?’
Charlie smiled again, aware of Berenkov’s attention upon him now. ‘Your father and I had the same sort of job but we were competitors,’ said Charlie. ‘There was a lot of mutual respect between us.’
Berenkov laughed, approvingly, and echoed, ‘A great deal of mutual respect.’
Books lined two walls of the Moscow apartment, as they had in the Eaton Square flat which Berenkov had occupied in London. The identification for the person he had to contact was Chekhov: and Berenkov had used Chekhov, for his London codes. The spy was someone in headquarters, Wilson had said: Berenkov was at headquarters. As likely as it seemed, Charlie knew he could make no move whatsoever. He could be mistaken. And Berenkov was too astute to miss an approach.
‘I’m very glad, to be able to thank you,’ said Valentina: she had a predictably small voice. ‘I’ve always felt that you made it possible for Alexei to come back home.’
‘I suppose I did,’ said Charlie. She clearly knew more than the boy.
‘Georgi may qualify to become an exchange student,’ said Berenkov, the pride obvious.
‘England?’ queried Charlie, curiously.
‘Possibly,’ said the boy. ‘Or America.’
‘The experience will be good for him,’ insisted Berenkov.
Could it be this easy! Charlie thought. He was aware of the looks that went between Berenkov and his wife. To Georgi, he said, ‘Do you want to go?’
‘I want to do what my father considers best,’ replied the boy, dutifully.
Berenkov insisted upon refilling their glasses twice before they ate. The trouble to which Valentina had gone with the meal was obvious and Charlie complimented her on the borsch and then the veal – aware the family had extensive concessionary facilities to obtain everything on the table, another indication of Berenkov’s importance – and smiled over his wineglass at the Russian. ‘French?’ he guessed.
‘A little indulgence I allow myself,’ confirmed Berenkov. ‘I always regretted not being able to teach you about wine, Charlie…’ Berenkov paused, appearing to consider the statement. He added, ‘It was, I guess, the only thing that I knew better than you.’
‘Maybe there’ll be time now,’ said Charlie.
‘Maybe,’ agreed Berenkov.
After the meal Georgi excused himself to study in his room and Valentina made much of clearing the table, to leave them alone. Berenkov offered brandy – French again – which Charlie accepted, and an imported Havana cigar, which he didn’t. Berenkov savoured the ritual of wetting the leaf and clipping the end, lighting it in a billow of bluish smoke and said, ‘The greatest advantage of having Cuba as an obedient satellite.’
‘You’ve a nice family, Alexei,’ coaxed Charlie. ‘It must be good to be home?’
‘Yes,’ agreed Berenkov, reflectively. ‘It’s good.’ He smiled across at the other man. ‘I never expected to be entertaining you here in Moscow, Charlie.’
‘I didn’t expect to be entertained.’ Why didn’t Berenkov come out with Chekhov’s innocent remark about the weather!
‘I never had the chance to thank you, either,’ said Berenkov. He raised his brandy bowl. ‘I’ve made the toast before, in your absence, but I’ll make it again, now you’re here. Thanks, for making the repatriation possible.’
‘I’m glad somebody benefited,’ said Charlie.
‘Was it bad?’
‘I would never have done it, if I’d known just how bad,’ admitted Charlie. If Berenkov were thinking of running Charlie realised that what he was saying could actually be a disincentive, but again it would provide an opening for the identification if the Russian would accept it. He told the other man, in greater detail than he’d bothered during the debriefing with Natalia, because he knew Berenkov would understand. He talked about dragging around Europe, on the run with Edith, jumping at shadows and of the pursuit when they were discovered and Edith’s death and of the loneliness and the drinking afterwards, just occasionally interrupted by doing things for Willoughby’s son.
‘Remember what you told me, when I debriefed you in jail?’ he asked Berenkov.
The Russian frowned, shaking his head.
‘How glad you were, in the end, that I’d got you? That you were getting scared you couldn’t go on much longer?’
‘I remember,’ said Berenkov. He hadn’t until now. He didn’t think he’d admitted that to anyone: Charlie must have been a better, more insidious debriefer than he recalled.
‘That’s how I felt, in Italy,’ said Charlie. ‘I’d have gone on running, if I’d had the chance, but I was really very tired. The feeling I remember, when I knew they had me, was of relief.’
‘I know that feeling,’ said Berenkov, fully confessional too.
‘Then prison,’ said Charlie, bitterly. ‘Jesus, how I hated prison!’
‘I told you about that,’ reminded Berenkov. ‘When I was there. I told you never to get caught.’
‘I know,’ recalled Charlie. Openly he said, ‘I suppose formally being a defector is different. There’s protection. Security.’
Berenkov smiled but said nothing.
Valentina came from the kitchen with coffee, put the pot between them and then – appearing aware of the depth of their talk – withdrew again.
‘Still surprised you came here, Charlie,’ said Berenkov.
‘You told me I’d go mad in prison; something like that,’ said Charlie, still in memories. ‘You were right. I would have done. Bloody nearly did.’
‘Still didn’t expect you to come to Moscow,’ insisted Berenkov.
‘I’m here now,’ said Charlie, with obviously forced brightness.
‘And?’
‘Tonight’s been the first good time,’ admitted Charlie. ‘The apartment stinks – literally – but I accept I can’t expect anything better. The debriefings I accept are necessary too: part of the procedure. But they’re becoming repetitive. At least, I suppose, I’m lucky to have got rid of that asshole Sampson.’
‘He’s a very clever asshole, Charlie.’
‘Assholes often are.’ It would be too much to hope for an indication from Berenkov of what the man was doing but there was something instinctive about trying, with the disparaging remark.
‘What are you going to do, Charlie?’ asked Berenkov, casually disregarding the lure.
It had been too much to expect, conceded Charlie: offensive almost. He said, ‘You tell me. What am I going to be allowed to do?’
‘There could be something,’ said Berenkov. ‘Something that might not create a conflict.’
So the man had studied the debriefing and knew about his refusal to Natalia, that first day. Charlie carefully put the brandy bowl on the table between them, knowing the gesture wasn’t over-demonstrative. Was it going to be the approach for which he’d been waiting or the offer of a job? ‘What?’ he said.